think you know what i want
by safeandsound13
Summary: Felicity accompanies Curtis to a One Direction concert so it'll be less creepy, and while she's there, she runs into a very attractive, broody guy named Oliver. Later, after she turns twitter-famous overnight thanks to his sister and almost gets blown to pieces IRL, she finds out he's the Arrow. You know, the guy who dresses up in green leather and fights criminals. That one.


.

Felicity likes pop music, she does. She's a firm pop music lover. She has nothing against boy bands either, on principle, because like—the whole reason people pretend boy band music isn't good is because their fan bases are usually predominantly teenage females and that's ' _hashtag lame'_ which is sexist as frick, and like—they always record _total_ jams?

It's just that… She likes One Direction, but she's not as emotionally invested. I Want You Back was her go-to sleep-over bop in middle school, listening to End Of The Road and pretending she's in a dramatic music video was a Real Thing™ in 2006, and she can't even pretend denying that dancing in her underwear to I Want It That Way was a daily ritual. Like yesterday, she was doing it. She's not even embarrassed to admit that.

Her best friend Curtis however? He's like a full-blown—always listening to them, knowing their time of births, having a framed photo of them on his nightstand, drawing an unironic comic of them— _Fanboy_. He takes it very seriously.

He pre-orders their albums, buys their unauthorized autobiographies and gets up at four a.m. to sit in front of his computer, play Candy Crush (1D version) on his phone and wait to buy tickets for their show at ten a.m. Even though he could just ask his awesome hacker best friend to fix the job for him in 1.2 seconds but no—he wants the full honest fan-experience.

That, my friends, is how Felicity Smoak ends up in sandwiched in between a bunch of sweaty, screaming thirteen year olds and Curtis, her tall, twenty-four year old best friend. For the record, she has nothing against sweaty, hormonal, screaming teenagers, she just would prefer for them not to pressed up against her for three full hours on end. She doesn't love One Direction enough for that.

She just thinks of eleven year old, braces wearing, Backstreet Boys obsessed Felicity, and thinks of how happy she'd be to be standing here and tries to channel that happiness all the way through the pre-show that includes a terrible DJ and some wannabe white rapper. Plus, the shitty booze helps, since she's legal and all.

Then, when she's taking a sip of said shitty beer and head-bobbing casually to Best Song Ever—while Curtis enthusiastically accidentally-on-purpose snapchats the song to his ex-boyfriend to make him jealous—a pubescent girl trying to catch a One Direction prop (is that a _sock_?) knocks into her like a quarterback (she doesn't know _any_ football terminology so don't hold it against her) and the life out of her, her awkward clumsiness exuberates a notch and decides to come into play.

She stumbles back and into something solid and warm, totally un-thirteen year old girl-like, beer dripping down her chest and spilling over the front of her pink top.

She turns around, already profusely apologizing when she notices who, or rather what godly creature, she bumped into. "I'm so sor—God, you're—wow." She shakes her head, too aware of his hands still on her upper arms, eyes widening at the stupid crap coming out of her mouth. She's being so superficial, she hates herself. But _damn_ , he's hot. Like broad shoulders, insanely blue eyes, sexy scruff, out of her league, would've bullied her in high school _hot_. "I mean. Frick."

He chuckles a little, but like he's a little numb to the compliment, making sure she's stabilized on her feet before letting go off her, fingers brushing down her arms. "It's okay."

"Nice save," she adds, voice slightly louder than usual to get over the beat, while she takes a tissue out of her cross-body handbag, "I mean, I bump into people a lot so I'd know." She starts dabbing at the satin material, shaking her head a little at herself. "If it was a contest, I'd win, hands down." He leans in a little to catch her voice over the music, probably just to be polite to the crazy, clumsy girl who he accidentally caught and insists on keep talking, but like, he smells great and she literally cannot shut up. "I'm either against or on top of a stranger _at least_ once a day, three times if I'm having a particularly good day."

She freezes, wiping that self-deprecating smize off her face stat, flinching at herself as she stops trying to fix the mess that is her top and looks at him, apologetically and embarrassed for life. She has a pretty high embarrassment tolerating factor—because she is Felicity Smoak, walking human disaster, _represent_ —so that speaks volumes. Nothing like falsely implying to some hot, heroic guy she just met that she likes to sleep around.

She fixes her glasses with her free hand, a flush creeping up her collarbone and neck. "I know what that sounded like, but I, _God_ , I didn't mean it like that. I bump into people a lot, like accidentally. This was a good bump in? I don't know, just ignore me from now on." She waves him off, face feeling warm and heart pounding loudly in her throat because of the utter and complete shame she's feeling right now, about to turn back to the stage (and Curtis, who's completely oblivious to her disastrous meet-awkward with this guy and super into Drag Me Down) when he speaks.

"I'm Oliver," he says, hand catching her wrist carefully as he leans closer again. He looks vaguely familiar. Maybe just one of those faces. "Sorry about your shirt."

"It wasn't your fault, really, just whatever One Direction member that tried to throw a used sock into a crowd full of pre-teens out for blood." She scrunches up her nose in disgust before smiling up at him, pressing one ear closed to subdue the music a little. "Felicity."

There's that awkward second where it takes her too long to say anything else because the conversation is kind of over, but she doesn't want to stop talking or feels like she shouldn't anyway, and they just blink at each other until she forces out an, "You come to these things a lot?"

"Huh?" He frowns slightly leaning further down, turning his head a little so he's directing his ear at her.

She leans closer to him, feeling clammy as she puts her hand on his shoulder so she can stand on her tippy toes. Why didn't she just keep her mouth shut? He obviously just wants her to shut up already but she can't _physically_ do that, "You come to these things a lot?"

She gets a few stinky looks from some pre-teen girls whose view she's currently blocking and lives she's probably ruining. She sends them an apologetic grimace, and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, amused as he nods his head to the side.

Suddenly she notices the girl next to him, making a circular waving movement with the hand that she's holding a drink with, the other one crossed over her chest. Her lips are pressed together in that ' _pity how bad you are at this_ ' closed mouthed half-smile and a look like she's both embarrassed for her and annoyed at her cluelessness that makes Felicity want to die even more.

She has wavy brunette hair, green-blue eyes lined with thick black lines and a bone structure Felicity would kill for. She's about as tall as Felicity, but clearly a lot younger, mid-teens if she'd have to guess. (Although the girl looks much more accomplished in life than her already. For one, she isn't making a blubbering idiot out of herself in front of a stranger.) She's _obviously_ his sister.

"Oh. Right. Same." Another blush forms on her cheeks as she lets out a nervous laugh, nodding back at Curtis, who's still too busy zooming in on one of the One Direction guy's faces to notice she's dying. "He thought it'd be too creepy. For him to go alone. I'm his beard. Kind of."

His smile widens and she feels a little weak in the knees, but before he can say anything Curtis pulls on her hand, pointing at the stage, yelling at her over the music. "Lis! Our favorite!" He's still inattentive to everything except his favorite people on the earth.

She sends an apologetic wave and close-mouthed smile at Oliver and his sister, throwing out a final "nice to meet you" before turning back to the stage, Curtis' arm around her shoulders. She can finally let out the breath she didn't know she was holding, throwing her arm around his waist as he films them singing along to No Control.

She doesn't dare look back over her shoulder until the confetti signaling the event is almost over falls down, and it's now Curtis finally follows her gaze. Oliver raises his eyebrows at him, corners of his lips turned up slightly and arms crossed over his chest. And then Curtis steals a peak _again_ , eyes widening before he looks at her. He looks back again, before Felicity pulls on his sleeve to get him to turn to her.

" _Curtis_ ," she hisses, firmly focusing her eyes on one of the singers as they come back out for an encore. Her pulse already a gallop rhythm, flush creeping up her neck.

"He's really hot," he whisper-shouts firmly into her ear, not resisting taking another look at him. Felicity holds in a groan just in time, shoulders stiff with tension as her grip around his wrist tightens. "Keep it in your pants, Holt."

He's about to open his mouth when the beat to Kiss You starts and he twirls her around, "OH, I just want to take you anywhere that you like!" starting off a fit of laughter between the two of them until the show ends. When Curtis pulls her through the crowd of people to get to his car before it'll take them five hours to get past the traffic—she catches one last glimpse of the both of them (looking like two of those perfect calvin klein models starring in a family oriented commercial), cheeks warm with excitement, alcohol and just a little bit melancholic.

.

Felicity is busy with work as always, but more than usual because the deadline of a project she's headlining at Palmer Tech is edging closer and closer, and she's constantly anxious she's going to lose her funding and also like, her boss (Ray _Palmer_ , as in yes, Palmer tech) keeps sending her expensive gifts which makes her feel bad? He's nice and all, but she accepted his job offer because she thought she could make a difference in the world of medicine with technology, not because she needed a boyfriend. She could've skipped MIT and downloaded Tinder for that.

And lunch, like every food moment in her life, is sacred. Especially in desperate, stressed times like these when a 30 minute relaxation moment per shift is all she has. That's why she doesn't understand how Curtis, who's well-informed of this fact, dares to flee his desk on the top floor to come into her basement lab and interrupt her just as she's about to take that first heavenly bite out of her salad.

"God, if you're here to show me another viral wrestling match I'm going to stab myself with this fork," she sighs, rubbing her temple with her free hand. He ignores her completely, rushing over to her side.

Curtis presses his phone into her face all of a sudden, eyebrows raised excitingly. "You do know you're like, the most wanted and famous person in the 1D fandom right now, right?"

She frowns, and it takes her a second for her science-orientated brain to catch up with the fact that he's talking about a boy band, and not one-dimensionality. "Curtis, I thought we discussed this. You're a little too old to be this actively engaging in conversations with freshman girls on the intern—"

"No, no, just look!" His fingers moves over the screen fast, before handing it to her with a pointed look. "And before you say anything, I wasn't like actively searching for 1D related tweets, someone from Starling City University just shared her tweet on my timeline and I immediately recognized your dye-job."

"Hey, I told you that in confidence," she retorts, without much heat because she's too busy reading whatever the hell Curtis is so excited about.

 **Thea Queen**

thequeen

 _what's in a name? the mf truth!_

 _wild child, 19, SC_

❣ _Roy_

 **thequeen**

 _just a heads up this next thread gonna be hella cheesy & full of 1D hashtags_

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _yall know my stubborn anti-social overprotective brother who accompanied me to my concert last week bc he dont trust no one and concerts are full of ppl?_

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _yea the one who refused to get me VIP tickets 'out of principle' bc i had one tiny car accident last year, that one_

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _well…_

Felicity sends Curtis a questioning glance over her shoulder since this could literally be about _anyone_ and just sounds like a whole lot of champagne problems. He rolls his eyes, nudging his head towards his phone. "Just keep scrolling. There's more."

 **thequeen**

 _help me find this girl my brother met her last week's 1D Starling City show & can't stop thinkin about her #sisterknowsbest #girlalmighty [photo]_

Felicity enlarges the image with a pounding heart. It's a little out of focus and obviously directed at the stage behind her, but it's definitely her and Curtis huddled together, trying to communicate over the loud beats. She'd recognize that short flat top and marvel varsity jacket anywhere. Plus, herself. She's pretty good at recognizing herself.

She presses the 'return' button, reading the rest of Thea's thread.

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _this is my stupid brother he only uses three word sentences usually but actually talked 2 her 4 a good 10 min n now he in love #stolemyheart [photo]_

It's him. It's actually him. Not with his arms crossed, and corded earplugs hanging around his neck, but with his arm wrapped around Thea's shoulder, a little sunburned and half-naked in swim shorts on some boat, his hair a little shorter than she's seen him with. She did not need that image swirling around her brain.

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _he's legit been grumpy this entire week bc he forgot to ask for her number b4 the crowd trampled us apart #nobodycompares_

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _he only understood bout half of what she said 2 him over the music but had the googly eyes directed at her within 15 seconds #whatafeeling_

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _girl is blond, about 5'5, has glasses and was obviously not a teenager, ! #actmyage i think her name was like felissa or lissa or s/t like it_

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _my brother would kill me if he knew i was doin this but hes never connected w anyone like this be4, desp needs a #lastfirstkiss_

 **thequeen in reply to thequeen**

 _or just s/t like #rockme be'd cool 2, whatever she wants #sexualpunintented_

 **thequeen retweeted 1dluver**

 _wow what a meet cute lets make it happen fandom_

 **thequeen retweeted one_erection**

 _yo SC area what uP? any1 kno this girl? please rt & tell ur friends [photo]_

 **thequeen retweeted lancesara**

 _i volunteer as a tribute ;)_

"You need to reply, like now," Curtis interjects her thinking process (thoughts ranging from what the… frick to what the actual frick) all of a sudden, waving an accusing finger at her. He goes into an entire rant about true love (on the internet, Curtis, seriously?) that she only catches three words of because she's too busy mustering up a reply. This all feels like a very bad Hallmark movie, or in the very least, a prank.

Felicity's not really _on_ twitter, just goes on there to retweet the usual post-episode Orphan Black memes (now that it's ended she's dead inside and never on there because the memories hurt too much) and to upload the occasional self gratifying selfie when it's been long enough for her to forget the creepy guys who flood her mentions afterward.

She leans over to grab her bag and pulls out her own phone, memorizing Thea's twitter handle before handing Curtis back his. "What am I supposed to say?" She wonders out loud, not even realizing Curtis was still stumbling his way through a pros and cons list.

He pushes his glasses back up his nose, shrugging excitingly. "Just present yourself! The internet will do the rest."

 **f-smoak in reply to thequeen**

 _wow, your brother is the big broody guy who aggressively pretended he didn't know EVERY word to what makes you beautiful?_

She hesitates, then types out a follow up. Her heart rate is about 500 a second, so that feels great.

 **f-smoak in reply to thequeen and f-smoak**

 _I think I'm the one who rambled his head off and regretted not asking for #morethanthis #amIdoingthisright_

Within a minute, notifications are flooding her phone and for a fleeting second, Felicity guesses this must be what it's like being a member of One Direction. Teenage girls are powerful. She doesn't see a reply from Thea yet, though, just recognizes some other familiar names of her friends.

 **iWest-Allen in reply to thequeen and f-smoak**

 _YES GIIIIIIRL get some #youredoingamazingsweetie [photo]_

 _ **ciscooo in reply to iWest-allen, thequeen and more**_

 _get yourself that publicity henny! #alsogetthatabc..D_

 **dr_snow in reply to f-smoak**

 _A rare phenomenon. Felicity Smoak rises on twitter once a year, and when she does, she makes sure the entirety of Western society damn well knows it._

 **bartholomew in reply to iWest-allen, ciscooo and more**

 _I'm sorry these buffoons are embarrassing you, but yeah. Good for you._

 **iWestallen in reply to bartholomew and f-smoak**

 _Couch sound good, buffoon?_

She kind of feels embarrassed on multiple levels. One, for even replying to begin with. It's already giving her anxiety. Two, because of her friends being this extra. Three, because, like… His sister set this up? He might not even really be interested in her. Besides, four, they spoke for like half a minute. Five, she's Felicity Smoak, when does she not feel awkward? When does she not overthink every single little thing?

"And?" Curtis presses finally, after a good whole minute of tense silence.

"Nothing yet," she says, trying not to sound nervous as she finally stuffs her mouth with a huge bite of salad, even though her stomach is too much in knots to really enjoy it. It serves as a fine excuse to keep from talking, though.

She leans back on the couch, hissing quietly as she slips out of her heels, putting them up on the table as she rests the salad on her lap. She chews, defiant, leaning her head back as she looks at Curtis. "I feel stupid," she says finally.

"Lis, look. I know you only saw him for like five seconds and you don't know much about him besides for the fact he has a sister and doesn't like crowds or _legendary_ pop music," he presses, wiggling his eyebrow and earning himself a chuckle. "So he might turn out to be a loud eater or a really bad racist. But, you'll never know if you don't try, right?"

"I guess," she mutters, adding a half sarcastic, "thanks mom," that earns her a punch in the shoulder. For a tech nerd, Curtis is surprisingly strong, but he was a bronze medalist in the olympics so it isn't all that surprising anyway. It just makes her think that, you can't judge a book by it's cover. So she might be really wrong about him. Oliver, not Curtis. You're still with her? She doesn't even know if _she_ 's still with her.

She doesn't get a single reply from Thea during her entire lunch break, plus the twenty minutes she and Curtis smuggle on before he absolutely has to go back because "there was a long line in front of the elevator" is no longer a valid excuse.

She feels even more stupid, because what if Thea saw a close-up of her face and was like, never fricking mind or, like, her brother set her straight about his so-called interest in her. Eventually she goes back to work, a little gloomy but managing through it.

Curtis tags her in a meme on Facebook about an hour before her shift ends, " _when you walk by a hot stranger in public and realize you'll never see them again in your life_ " with a picture of a crying boy. Iris, a long distance best friend, texts her while she's locking up the lab because she wants an update, and Cisco keep snapchatting her bugging her about her location still being at work and not something more exciting. It makes her smile, and she reminds herself she has amazing friends, and a great job, and she doesn't need anything else in her life, to be quite fricking honest.

Then, when she's settling in her car, her phone bleeps, and all that self-proclaimed independent woman crap flies right out of her lime green KIA's window and she turns back into a twelve year old girl who got a text from the president of the Computer Club. She's not pathetic—it's just… It's been a _while_.

It's not that she hasn't had advances (she's a girl, with boobs and an internet connection, you don't _want_ to see her instagram direct messages)—like from her boss' boss' _boss_ , even—but it's just that it hasn't felt right in a while. And she doesn't want to say that she magically formed a connection with Oliver in three minutes—but it just feels like it could be good, you know?

It's a DM from Thea. Maybe she hadn't been as annoyed at her during the concert as Felicity had thought initially.

 **Direct Messages Thea Queen**

 **thequeen**

 _hi, felicity. sorry for exposing your identity to the entire continent. i, of all people, should know better. that probably wasn't as considerate as i'd imagined. hopefully you're a hopeless romantic, like moi, and will appreciate it on some level or will at least not hold it against my brother. do you maybe want to meet him again? like a blind date? xoxo_

 _Hi, Thea! It's okay, I promise that if I didn't want to be found I wouldn't have been. And a blind date? As in those kind of dates that are always awkward, doomed and unpredictable but then with the pressure of the whole entire internet awaiting it's fate in the back of my mind? Sure, why not._

 _well successful or not, besides the lifelong internet shame, you'll get some free five star shrimp cocktail out of it so it's a win/win. xoxo_

She, of all people, should know better? Felicity figures it's probably because of her family name. The Queen's are actually fairly well known in Starling City, especially because of Queen Consolidated, Palmer Tech's biggest competitor. Which is, something she will definitely not allow to think about right now. That's a bridge she won't cross until she needs to.

She quickly DMs Thea her number, that she's free next Friday and tells her to text the _public_ address (he might be hot but he could still be a creep) as soon as she has one. Then she starts her car and makes a vow to herself to not obsess over this too much. It's just a date. One date. Nothing more.

.

She didn't wasn't obsessing, okay. There were no vows broken. Zero. 0. That's zero in binary. (Why learn other languages when a computer can do the work for you?)

She just did what she always does, basically. A quick google search to find out he used to be a billionaire philanthropist playboy (what's this? Iron Man?), which doesn't compare to IT specialist turned Applied Sciences specialist who used to work three jobs to get through college (one, not five, like him), not by far. They're from completely different worlds, that's for sure.

She didn't even have to somewhat illegally deepdive into the dark web, which usually is the case. The Queens, and especially Oliver with his bad boy reputation, are Starling City Royalty.

It explains why he looked so familiar though, she must've seen him on the news way back when, before his boat sunk and he spent five years on an island. Or after it happened, three years ago, when he came back to a media frenzy and to find out his best friend married his girlfriend. Back when she was still in Las Vegas, or at MIT.

Most of the reports date back to before the island, or straight after, though. He's been fairly quiet ever since, just stepping up to take over his father's company and the occasional news story that comes with that. Nothing too special.

She's at the restaurant way before him, because she likes to be early and punctual. It's a good quality in people, plus gives her enough time to calm herself the frick down before he comes and take a good hard look at where all the exits are in case she screws up just a little too much. Also, she can obsessively stare at the text message Iris send her the day before.

 **From: Iris**

 _Lis, look don't put so much pressure on yourself! He might be the one, he might not be. At least make sure you have some fun. He doesn't have to be the guy you marry, he could just be the guy that rocks your world for a night ;)_

No pressure.

He arrives just a little after 7:15, buttoning up his suit jacket, brows furrowed together before he sees her, a smile forming on his face. His hair's a little shorter then she remembers, and he looks tired, but he cleans up nice. Which is a joke, because even not cleaned up he looks nice.

She downs the last swig of her cocktail (hey, some liquid courage never killed anyone) before getting up to greet him. She brushes down the shamrock colored bodycon dress Iris ordered online without her permission, but makes her ass look good anyway so she gracefully accepted the gift (a little seduction also never hurt anyone, probably). It feels like forever before he's finally standing in front of her. She smiles a little too bright, and he chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Hey."

"Hi," she breathes back out. There's a Felicity Moment where he sticks out his hand to shake hers but she's already leaning across to hug him, because—God knows why she thought that was a good idea. Other than that, she's perky.

When he sees she's about to hug him, he just leans in to do the same, circling her frame tightly with his arms, giving her a soft squeeze before letting go. He's warm and firm and she's in way too deep already. She's pretty sure her collarbone and neck are splotched all over, but she decides to ignore that as they sit down. "I thought you were going to stand me up for a second there."

He's mid-sip of water, so it takes a second for him to respond, using his free hand to loosen up his tie a little. "Yeah, sorry about that. Meeting ran late and then my driver missed a turn. I'm sorry."

"There's a little something on your face," she notes, putting the napkin down on her lap before carefully collecting her waves of hair and placing them on one shoulder. "Sorry. I'm going to be super distracted this entire dinner if I don't say it."

And Jesus, what a face.

"I'm sorry?" He says, obviously a little distracted too as she realizes he's still looking at the newly exposed skin of her collarbone and shoulder—you're welcome, Oliver.

"There, under your eye." She nods her head into a general direction, which she knows doesn't help even a tiny bit but she doesn't want to cross any boundaries here, and his head snaps up to look at her, thoughtfully. "Like just a smudge of…" She makes a circular motion with her hand, considering it. "Well, I'd say eye-shadow but I don't peg you as the kind of guy who uses it. Not—not that there's anything wrong with guys who use makeup, but. You know."

She might as well quit while she's ahead. There was an exit on her left, right?

He wipes at his skin, missing the spot completely, as he lets out an awkward unnatural laugh. "No, must be some grease from my motorbike."

She smiles, a little amused as she raises her eyebrows. "I thought you said your driver dropped you off."

"Yeah, he did," he clears his throat, unfolding his own napkin and placing it on his lap. "He brought me home, and then I took my bike here."

"Can I just.." She nudges her head towards his face, and he nods leaning a little closer. There's a whiff of cologne that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight as she reaches out to wipe the smudge off his cheekbone, tip of her tongue sticking out just a little.

"Thanks," he smiles, catching her hand before she can pull away completely and her pulse is in a gallop as he squeezes, their hands resting on the table. "And thank you for meeting me even after what my sister did."

(She's about to die. It's not just that she gets this primal urge to get him naked when he smiles like that, it's also that he's—incredibly endearing.)

She shrugs as he lets go of her, taking a sip of her water and hoping it'll hide the blush forming on her cheeks. "I'm just here to repay the favor. You saved me from a really embarrassing fall right on my face in front of all those twelve year olds. The internet community's nothing compared to them."

"I hope you didn't feel obligated to meet me." He's so formal and polite, it makes it really hard to get a good read of him.

"God, I hope you didn't." Her eyes widen. "I mean, maybe your sister misread the signs and you weren't at all hoping to see me again, which I understand because some days _I'm_ even too much for me—"

"No, no. I do." He presses, corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "I did want to see you again."

"Okay. Good," she lets out a deep breath, swallowing tightly as she looks at him, just now realizing the weight of their words. "Me too."

"You look nice," he says, almost timid, and she opens up her menu to hopefully hide the flush that's creeping up her neck. "Green is my favorite color, actually."

"Thank you," she chirps out, embarrassed, pressing her thighs together because she is literally About To Die. She actually looks at her menu now and tries to find that shrimp cocktail Thea was raving about, everything to not have to look at him right now, when his phone buzzes.

"Sorry," he grimaces, like the simple standardized buzz tells him something more than it does her. "I really have to take this."

As he puts the phone to his ear with a short "Dig, what's up?" Felicity takes the interruption to analyze the night so far, taking Iris' words into consideration.

Okay, so she caught him a lie, a tiny one that is but still. (Then there's the fact he might wear eyeliner, which, on principle, she has nothing against, but lying about wearing eyeliner? That's lame.) Also, he's a little rude? Answering his phone like that even though they're in the middle of a date.

He's also kind, and sweet, and—and maybe she should just quit while she's ahead. She's only known him for like two hours, total. Maybe he's _not_ Mr. Right, just because her hormones spike whenever she takes a look at him that lasts for longer than three seconds. Maybe, he _is_ Mr. Right Now... I Never Really Do This But It's Been A While So It'd Be Great, If You Want To Of Course I'm Not Trying To Pressure You Or Anything, Frick The Internet Consent Is Sexy. Something like that.

She looks up from her menu to meet his eyes. He's looking straight at her, but like he isn't really seeing her, brow furrowed together as he listens to the murmering on the other side of the line. She's come to learn he does that a lot. Frown.

"Tracker?" She catches him say before he's suddenly standing next to the table, instructing her to do something she can't really hear because she's distracted by a table flying her direct way, followed by a raging flame of fire.

She remembers thinking she's not really ready to die, in that, I still have a lot to accomplish way before suddenly, he's on top of her, very heavy she thinks, and they're on the floor, and she's desorientated, a ringing in her ear that's making her kind of dizzy and—and he's speaking, she thinks.

"Are you okay?" She finally makes out after half a minute, as he wipes some hair from her forehead. It's a sentence, she knows it is, but she can't quite make sense of it right now because what the hell just happened?

"I imagined this entire position under very different circumstances," she mumbles, head still spinning. Then, like a dam breaking open, words suddenly mean stuff again and she quickly opens her mouth to correct herself. "Platonic positions, very platonic."

He helps her into a sitting position, checking carefully for any injuries as she just keeps on going, thinking it might make it better, which it never does. "Like in the gym or something, you know? Because you definitely look like you work-out." For some reason, her hand reaches out to pat his bicep.

He doesn't say anything though, his hand on her shoulder as he peaks over the table that shielded them from most of the blast. The same table they were sitting at just a moment ago.

"We have to get out of here," he tells her, fingers digging deeper into her skin, eyes searching hers with a hint of determination. "This scene is compromised."

He's saying words, and she's looking at him saying them, but it feels like some sort of weird out of body experience. What the hell is happening? She knows who he is, but who is he _really_?

"Oliver," she swallows, letting out a deep breath, the back of her neck stinging with a sharp pain, spreading over her entire spine, as she squeezes her eyes shut. "I think I'm going to pass out now, okay?"

.

The first thing she remembers thinking of is how she should text Iris with an update. She is probably wondering if they ended up in bed together, or if she can start planning a May wedding.

How should that text go exactly? _Yeah, we had fun, Iris! He was a little late and he made up some dumb lie about why, but God, is he charming. Thinking about taking your advice. Anyway, the restaurant blew up before dessert. Call you tomorrow xoxo_

Then she wakes up, finally, the room spinning. Not because of like a traumatic brain injury or anything, but because as soon as she sits up and meets Oliver's eye, she realizes he's wearing the Arrow suit.

You know, the vigilante who roams around Starling City at night to fight criminals and whatnot.

Now, she comes from a world of science and she isn't one to draw fact from assumption, but—Oliver's the Arrow.

The first thing that comes out of her mouth as soon as she gets it to actually move is, "Wow. So you fight crime _and_ have time to be a successful One Direction fan?" It feels like a dumb thing to say, joke falling flat.

He uncrosses his arms, takes a step closer to the metal table she's installed on. He lets out a sharp breath, looking unsure. "You probably have a lot of questions," he starts, serious and she glares at him, because, you think?

She puts a hand to her forehead, examines the skin of her free arm. It's covered in small cuts and bruises, stained black from the explosion. Or whatever the frick went down in that restaurant. She's not sure of anything anymore.

She wants to know a lot of things. Most of them starting with why and how and who, like who in frick's name just tried to kill them. So yes, she has questions. Millions of them. Because she's still Felicity, she settles on, "When you said green was your favorite color, you actually meant that you like to dress up in green leather at night?"

He sends her an apologetic look, but makes no effort to explain anything. Which is infuriating, to say the least.

"I take it it's no use laying out a lame 'we're going to comic con tomorrow' excuse?" Felicity turns her head to find Thea sporting a likewise outfit, but then dark blue. She smiles, wide and happy, like the world as Felicity knows it didn't just end. "Nice to meet you, for real, this time, by the way."

"You let your sister fight with you?" She asks, incredulous. This just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Isn't she a teenager? Where did she even learn karate or whatever they do? Did those five years on the island screw him up _that_ badly?

Her gaze lands on a suspiciously silent boy hovering behind Thea, who looks even broodier than Oliver, which before seeing him, she didn't even think was a possibility. He's wearing the red variant of their outfits, because Jesus Christ, are they the Power Rangers?

"Oh my god and who's this? Please tell me he talks." She's already imagining the worst backstories out there. Maybe his tongue got cut out by his archenemy when he was a baby and he never learned to talk so instead he learned to communicate with his fists? Seems plausible. He looks so young, out here underneath the sterile fluorescent lights in this… den. "Where do you get your sidekicks? Middle school?"

"Hey lady, that's offensive," he barks, fingers at his sides tightening into fists. So at least he still has his tongue and she can cross off that theory.

She swings her legs off the table, taking a deep breath as her head starts spinning again. Oliver is at her side pretty quickly, one hand between her shoulder blades as he gently tries to coax her into laying back down.

She shakes her head, as a hard no, but instead it makes it worse and she feels a little nauseous.

"Felicity," he says, concerned and part of her feels angry, because he doesn't get to this. Doesn't get to drop this secret on her and then be soft with her. "I promise you're safe here, okay? As soon as you feel good enough to walk, I'll bring you home, does that sound alright to you?"

"Felicity," he presses, when she doesn't say anything, and it's not until he reaches up to rub his thumb underneath her eyes that she realizes she's crying. "You're okay."

"Why do I _still_ feel like I can trust you?" Even after all that's happened, she implies heavily but doesn't say. Is she insane? Did that explosion mess up her brain? She knows that technically sounds like an insult, but maybe it is. She's offended with herself, for still feeling—feeling at ease, with him.

"Must have one of those faces," he teases, but it falls flat. Mostly because he's frowning while saying it, partly because she has a raging headache.

The next time she wakes up its in her own bed, to the sound of a Taylor Swift song playing from her alarm clock radio, and for the sake of her sanity, she won't question _how_ she ended up here or why there's a bacon smell penetrating her nostrils.

— _ain't for the best / my reputation's never been worse, so / you must like me for me/ yeah, I want you/ we can't make any promises now, can we, babe? but you_ —

She shuts her alarm off with a loud groan, throwing her blankets off her and immediately being engulfed by coldness. For a second she feels sick, then it simmers down to a pounding head and she can stand without wanting to die.

She slips out of last night's clothes and into some sleep shorts and an old pyjama shirt, throwing a blanket around her shoulders when she can't find her robe fast enough. She pads into her kitchen, stretching.

"I'm Jewish," she says in lieu of a greeting, pressing a hand to her head as she sits down on a stool at her kitchen island. "Is it possible that you can see smell? Because I kind of feel like I'm thinking in 4D, which I guess everyone always does, but my head just feels like I'm Lucy, but on crack—"

"Glad to see you're back to being you," he interrupts her with a small amused smile as he tilts his head at her. He cooks, too. _How_ is that fair? "Does that mean you don't eat bacon?"

She nods, raising an eyebrow and he scoops something onto a plate, pushing scrambled eggs over the counter to her instead. Has he been here all night?

He looks at her while she eats her food (she is _so_ hungry she forgets to worry about whether or not this is poisoned so she won't snitch on him), dish towel slung over his shoulder, leaning forward on his hands and it's so domestic the nausea starts to flood back up again.

"Was last night a dream?" She asks, through a mouth full of eggs as she presses the hand holding her fork to her mouth apologetically. She just really loves food and getting answers equally.

He swallows visibly, pausing at he stares at her plate instead of her. He's probably contemplating lying, which for the first time in her life, actually seems like a good idea. She _wants_ him to lie to her. Maybe even needs him to. He finally makes eye-contact, eyes soft and brow furrowed because that's probably just his face.

He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps flexing, and she's only _just_ able to prevent rolling her eyes back into her head, because, seriously? She gets it, he's fit. He opens his mouth to wet his lips, hesitating, before settling on, "Felicity, I'm sorry about last night, about what happened or—could _have_ happened."

"What _exactly_ happened?" Now they're talking about it anyway, and all.

"I was late to our... meeting," he can't even say the word date, great, she doesn't want to think about what that implicates, "because I was after a potential terrorist." A terrorist. He was after a terrorist and she's in an actual action movie. "He must've tagged me during our altercation, and targeted the restaurant when he found out I was there."

"Meeting?" She clarifies, swallowing tightly, putting her fork down next to the plate, because yes, that is your priority now, Felicity. Defining The Relationship, not the whole terrorist tried to bomb our asses thing.

He opens his mouth to speak, something flashing across his eyes when a surge of pain shoots from the back of her neck to her head, and she winces, grabbing it. He walks around the counter with an alarmed look on his face as he checks for any signs of secondary injury, taking her hand in his softly so his view isn't obscured, tilting her head to the side.

He's close, pressing on her skin softly to gauge her reaction, and he smells so nice and her chest suddenly feels way too small for the size of her heart. He pulls back when he apparently doesn't find anything life-threatening, he blinks, squeezes her hand and then lets go.

"I should go," he states, taken a step back and she literally feels her shoulders stiffen. She fixes her glasses on her nose, then tilts her head at him like she's expecting him to say something else.

When he doesn't, and just stands there, looking at her with cool, inexpressive blue eyes, making her frown. If he stayed here, just to make she's okay, why is he acting this way? Why is he acting like he doesn't care? "You're just… going to go?"

"Felicity," he starts, and she hates how he says her name, "Because of who I am, what I do, I think it's better not to be with someone I could really care about."

What the frick?

Someone I could really care about? Who he is? Just because he wears green leather at night and beats people up does not give him the moral high ground to make decisions for her. She's not a child, or an imbecile.

No, what the actual _fuck_?

Her expression must convey what he's thinking because he takes her hand out of her lap and into his once more, running his thumb over the back of her hand.

"I have to go," he repeats, corner of his lip tilting up slightly in a way she recognizes from the pictures of him they put in the newspapers and magazine interviews. It's not real.

She just huffs, shaking her head lightly because she can't really seem to find the right words to convey how she is feeling, besides that she's completely caught off guard. He just looks at her for a second longer, searching her eyes, then deciding against whatever else he was going to add, and nodding at her as some sort of goodbye before he walks out her door, grabbing his leather jacket off her coat rack.

What just happened? He agreed to go on a date with her, and he knew who he was then, so what's changed now? He just wanted her for a second, or, or he was planning on never telling her in the first place? Was he leading her on? Because now he wasn't just the really hot guy at some concert she would be wondering about for the rest of her life, some stupid crush or impossible standard to hold other guys to, now, because of him, because he went on a date with her, he was an actual person that she liked. A lot. She doesn't know why, but she does. Or—or what?

She hates the pull the whole 'woman scorned' routine, but she is a woman, and she's feeling pretty scorned right now. She needs to know why. She wants some answers. Or to yell at him for a second without blanking out because he's too close or saying shit like what he just did. Anything, really, to not feel like _this_.

Throwing her blanket off her and onto the nearest flat surface she hurries over to her room to get out her laptop, settling down on the couch with it in her lap. She's got work to do.

.

So, it would be kind of dramatic to storm into his Batcave on a random Wednesday in her tightest ' _you don't know what you're missing_ ' dress (the blazer she wore over it at work discarded in her lime green KIA), laptop tucked under her arm, smug expression on her face, with the dumb opening line, "You know, it would actually be harder to find a vegan."

It's a specific joke, a niche meme, but you'd think one of them would've gotten it. Her bets were on one of the two high schoolers.

And because she kind of can't shut up and she's laughing nervously and there's about three guns, a samurai sword (? ? ?) and one bow and arrow pointed at her right now, she adds, "It would be somewhere in between Nemo and Waldo, I guess? Kind of like an equivalent of the bad guy in every Scooby Doo episode, the first person they run to always did it and all. Which I know isn't exactly the case here—"

"Felicity," it's Thea who speaks up first, and the blonde lets out a breath of relief that it gets her to stop talking and further embarrassing herself. The younger girl is smiling, almost entertained as she lowers her sword.

It just turns out Felicity _is_ dramatic as hell.

"Hi," she announces, then stalks over closer to their sorry excuse for a computer setup. She nods at the fourth unfamiliar guy on her way there, who at least looks of age, dark and broad, very broad. "I'm Felicity, if you didn't know," she gulps, as he crosses his arms. "Your arms are like, huge."

"Thank you?" He questions, then bursts into a reserved smile that somehow isn't condescending. Eyes twinkling with something as he looks over at their green boss. "I'm John Diggle, but you can call me Digg."

He's the guy _her date_ was on the phone with in the restaurant. Figures.

"What the hell are you doing here?" It's Roy, because he's a brat, and Felicity is so adamant on not meeting Oliver's eyes that she will not even think about the fact he hasn't said a word.

"First of all, your firewall sucks. If it took me fifteen seconds to break into your entire system, that would be an overstatement," she starts, leaning over their computer desk to plug in her USB and put down her bag and laptop.

It apparently gives them a great view of her ass, because when she looks at them over her shoulder Roy and his red ears look like he's about to have a stroke; Thea's snorting as she elbows Diggle, who's pointedly looking in every direction but hers; and Oliver's eyes are dark, jaw set. He opens his mouth to speak but she cuts him off, eyes narrowed.

"Second of all, you're an ass," she directs at Oliver, no longer avoiding his gaze because if this was the hill she was going to die on, it might as well be looking into his eyes. The staring, however, gets a little intense so she clears her throat and makes a point of looking at the rest. "Thirdly, the processors you have in here? A literal joke. When I just saw them while I was descending down the stairs after breaking in here, I actually laughed."

"Felicity," he finally speaks, hoarse, like he's having a hard time controlling his voice.

"No, seriously," she presses, eyes wide, because she's not just here for shits and giggles and petty revenge. It's the 21st century, it's not just about fists and blood anymore, there's also a thing called digital protection systems. "I didn't even know where this place was yet I found it by cross-referencing the last fifty places the Green Arrow, which you are, by the way, showed up and the median time it took him to get to the crime scene to narrow it down to this block. Then all I had to do was hack into a Nasa satellite to check for any unusual heat signatures or building structures to find your…" She crosses her arms, shrugging as she looks around the mostly metal and concrete construction to find the right word. "Cave."

She knows it sounds like a lot, and like it's difficult, but it's really not. Not to her.

"Look," he replies, lowering his voice, stepping closer to her and shielding her from the rest of his team as he puts a hand on her upper arm, which is obviously a dismissal. He doesn't take her seriously.

"No," her voice is shaking now, hands up in some sort of defense, closing her eyes for a moment to keep herself collected. "This is _not_ a desperate girl thing, where I'm just trying to get you notice me because I really like you and you don't like me back. Even if it maybe did start out like that." She throws a thumb over her shoulder at their computers. "Then I got to the bottom of this mess you have the nerve to call software and the seemingly blatant unawareness you have of cyberterrorism and actually got worried."

He just looks at her now, which is basically ninety percent of their relationship now, and the rest looks from her to Oliver and back, waiting for him to say something.

Then, something catches her eye on the desk, next to the keyboard, which they only have one (1) of. One keyboard. She is going to go insane any second now. "Is this the tracker that popped my explosion cherry?"

Which sounds—she knows how it sounds, but she couldn't care less now.

She looks at Oliver expectantly, but his face is still looking like literal emotional constipation so she looks at the others. "Is it?"

Diggle nods, bright light reflecting of the dog tags hanging from his neck, and Felicity vaguely wonders if he's the Yellow Ranger. You know, when he suits up. "We have very strong reason to believe it is." Like he isn't sure if she actually knows who Oliver is, or who they are, and he might be revealing too much information.

Roy rolls his eyes, "It is." Thea elbows him, glaring at him, because she's obviously waiting on the go-ahead from her brother. And he hasn't said a word.

These people really are ride or die.

Felicity's tongue darts out to wet her lips. "Look, I could install some software—not on these computers from the nineties, God no—but I developed a program a while ago that could filter through every online database to try and find the exact manufacturer of this tracker, narrow it down to the specific location it was distributed from, with a date and time." They're just blinking at her like she's crazy, so she continues. "I could then hack into whatever store's it was bought from and match the security camera footage of whatever clown that paid actual money for this second grade crap to satellite images from around the world to get a name and last known address. Anyone who's ever been outside has been registered by a satellite at some point."

She clears her throat at the silence she meets, then adds, awkwardly, "It would take ten minutes, tops."

"Damn," Roy breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Diggle is staring at her like he's still trying to process what she just said and how it came out of _her_ mouth. She crosses her arms, shrugging with one shoulder, because dare she say it—"I think you guys might actually need me."

"I think she's right, Ollie." Thea butts in, ignoring the glare he throws her way. "You missed the entire transition from flip phones to smartphones that recognize actual fingerprints and ended up digitally impaired, the Brawns over here," she nods at Roy and Diggle, "don't know nearly enough and I'm great at whatever I do, but I'm obviously not—" she motions at Felicity with both hands, " _that_ great."

Oliver's jaw looks like it's about to snap. "Absolutely not."

"I think we're kind of out of options, Oliver," it's Diggle. "We've been after him for two months, but he's like a ghost, man. Bodies keep piling up and we're not one step closer to stopping him."

"We're lucky we even ran into him the other night, or a lot of people could have seriously gotten hurt if that bomb had went of before we stopped it," Roy adds, with a shrug, then at the stern look on Oliver's face, he almost flinces. "Or not?"

"Yeah," she huffs, pushing her glasses further up her nose. "And then he just blew _us_ up."

Thea laughs, actually laughs out loud. "Come on, it's a little funny." She looks to Roy for support. "She looks so cute and innocent, yet she is probably the most badass person in here." She snorts. "I mean she _broke_ into the Green Arrow's secret headquarters without any weapons whatsoever."

"It's dangerous, to get involved with me— _us_." He lowers his voice, glancing over at the others, before adding, "I meant what I said."

"Did I mention you're an ass?" She just replies, instead of delving into that, that being she is the person he could potentially care about. Whatever that might mean. He cares about people, right? That's why he's trying to save this city, that's why he would risk his life to do it. He should care about her just because she is a Starling City resident. So what's the big fricking deal here?

His face remains stoic, but his fingers are curled into a fist. "I don't think it's the right call."

"Well, since I'm a grown ass woman and I don't think you're planning on relocating any time soon, we're in quite the pickle here, aren't we?" She responds, cynical as she sits down at the desk. "Because I will keep showing up."

They have another one of their little staring sessions, but instead she doesn't cave in, doesn't budge. She is in the right here. She wants to help them, with whatever they're doing. Not because she quote _likes_ unquote Oliver, but because she could actually mean something here. Keep them from getting themselves killed.

Thea snorts again as Felicity starts typing on their computers. She looks over her shoulder, to inform them that, "I'm ordering new computers, and I know at least two of the people in this room are millionaires so don't give me crap."

"Felicity," Oliver tries again, kneeling down next to her chair and turning it so she's facing him. "There is no going back. If anyone finds out you're working with us—" he hesitates, putting one hand on her knee, like that'll somehow convince her. "Something... _bad_ could happen. To you."

"I won't be found out," she reassures him, smiling lightly, even though she is still mad at him. "Because unlike all of you, I know how to hide my tracks."

With that, she turns her chair back, opening up her own laptop and connecting it to the desktops with a wire. She cracks her fingers, taking a deep breath. "Let's find the Doorknob that tried to blow me up, shall we?"

Twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds later, she pushes the chair back from the desk, spinning around to face them, "Boom." She holds up her hands in front of the computer like she's a girl on the Price is Right, showing off her mildly hard work.

"Jeffrey Coopersmith, a.k.a. the Detonator, which is an incredibly lazy and uncool nickname, by the way. Used to live in Central City before the Flash emerged, relocated here six months ago to Oak Forest. The dark web tells us he was pretty successful in blowing up people and locations in CC, claims his motivation is to extract money from the wealthy," she looks at Thea and Oliver, wiggling her finger from one to the other. "So I would hide, if I were you."

"We don't hide," Oliver states, as he reaches up to run a hand over his beard and Thea pulls a face. "I bet that sounded way cooler in your head, big bro."

He glares at her, then sighs when she sticks out her tongue. He presses his hands together and motions towards the display of suits. "Speedy, Arsenal, suit up. I want you guys to scout the location, see what he's up to."

As they get changed, she's hyper aware of her surroundings all of a sudden, shoulders stiff as she turns back to her computer, trying to find a more detailed background profile of the Detonator. Probably not, since he's pretty much a ghost and she already killed the job the first time around, but it keeps her busy. She hasn't felt this out of place since, probably high school.

Who just marches into a vigilante's secret headquarters and demands to hack their supervillain of the week into non-oblivion? Who does that?

They're all super fit, gorgeous, mysterious people and she's just Felicity. Thea and Roy leave loudly, the latter one trying to poke his girlfriend (probably, she thinks) in the sides causing her to laugh, Diggle disappears into a backroom and then it's just her and Oliver.

"Thank you," Oliver forces out, leaning back against the desk, inches away from her. Has he even heard of personal space? "Maybe we can get ahead of him this time."

"Hey, few systems hold up for long under these skilled fingers," she turns in her chair slightly so she's facing him, elbow leaning on the desk as she scrunches up her face. "Which I know sounds like an innuendo but for once in my goddamn life, let's just—move past it, okay?"

The corner of his lip turns up slightly, a light chuckle rumbling his chest, knuckles white where they grasp the edge of the desk. He's close, so close, and yet his body language is rigid, like he wants nothing to do with her. He's so hot and cold, it's driving her up the walls. On the inside, of course.

Diggle comes back and starts cleaning his gun near the arsenal table, she thinks he isn't in earshot so if she's going to embarrass herself within the next five minutes she won't have to worry about him being a witness. She cocks an eyebrow, tapping a fingernail on the table.

"So you're the Green Arrow," she visualizes the words by moving both of her hands outwards, snorting lightly. Then, she crosses her arms. "You don't think that is something you should mention on a first date?"

"I was getting to it," he half-jokes, sporting something that she thinks qualifies as a grin. It disappears. "Felicity. Even if you do this, help us, it should just be a one time thing."

She suppresses a huff, _and_ an eyeroll, _and_ the urge to stomp out of there. Instead she looks up at him, picking at her some loose skin around her thumbnail as she builds up the courage to ask him what she wants to ask even though it's probably not a good idea and she's going to come off as desperate, and pushy, and annoying. Things she can't as easily suppress.

"Like our date?" she says, because in the end, she craves confrontation.

It's not like she thinks they're soulmates, and are meant to be and she's head over heels in love. She just—she just feels there's something there, something she hasn't felt before, and maybe, maybe it's just chemistry or, or something stupid like that, but she doesn't just want to throw it away over his dumb insecure reasonings that make no sense to her. And she's not bad at reading people, okay? If he was giving her major vibes that her feelings weren't being reciprocated, she would've backed off. She still would've illegally hacked her way into a NASA server because she doesn't want them to die, but she wouldn't be sitting so close to him, meeting his eyes like this, wearing a dress like this.

He pauses for a moment, meeting her eyes. Then he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just think it's better—"

"Yeah, you said that, but I don't agree," she snaps, and she swears she hears Diggle stifle a laugh from thirty feet away. She sighs, wiping her palms on her dress as a silence falls over them. Pressing her hands together and resting the tops of her fingers against her lips, she tries and collect her thoughts in a manner that's understandable to a regular English speaking person and not just herself, her mother and Curtis.

"Of course I'm not going to force you into anything," she starts, voice calm, mostly because she forces it to be. "Since I like consent and am not a stalker who loves one sided relationships and all that, but it's not just _your_ decision to make."

There's silence, the two of them staring at each other, and he looks slightly on edge. Which figures, since he's this really rich former frat-boy who probably always got what he wanted. Heck, he could still get whatever he wanted.

"You really want to join us?" He questions, finally, voice low, oh-so smoothly avoiding the subject she's actually trying to address here. It's fine, whatever. Maybe he doesn't feel the same way.

She forces a smile on her face, swallowing tightly. If he needs more time, to think over her words, that's fine, she just wishes it wouldn't feel so much like rejection. "As long as I get to pick my own codename."

.

That's how Felicity ends up spending her days at work and most of her nights with Oliver (and the rest of the team!), with a permanent sleep deficit, as a part-time behind the scenes vigilante. Who, by the way, did not get to pick her own nickname.

"Overwatch," Oliver mutters quietly over the comms. "Can you locate the target?"

"What? No _please_? No old fashioned sucking up?" She teases, raising her eyebrows at Roy, but she's already swirling her chair around to log into her computer.

Oliver and Thea are at a fancy dress party as themselves, Diggle functioning as their faux bodyguard. The fancy dress party happens to be hosting a major thief who they think is about to make a move on the museum's new diamond collection.

"Overwatch," he hisses, like that should be enough, then, reluctantly, "Please." He's learning. Maybe ignoring him those few times whenever he flat out demanded things did the trick.

She scans the blueprints, cross-matching them with her latest probability measuring software and heat signature equipment. "He's headed towards the east upstairs corridor. Which coincidentally happens to be the direction of the jewelry exhibition. How come they're always so predictable?"

"Thanks," he mutters over the comms, sounding distracted, before it's quiet again.

Felicity sighs, turning back towards Roy. The museum's cameras were shut off manually earlier that night, and they've been running on audio only. It's making this particular run boring as hell. Especially for her red-hooded friend.

Roy in is in the chair next to her, feet kicked up on her desk as he munches on a bag of Doritos. He's in his regular clothes, looking extra moody because he wasn't allowed to join them.

"You're sad that you don't get to see Thea in her super fancy, tight, bejeweled dress until later?" She teases, knocking her elbow against his leg as she leans back in her chair. "Or are you worried that some rich rat might hit on her?"

He huffs, pursing his lips as he puts his feet down. "Yeah, right. So she can _actually_ hit him?" He slumps even further in his chair. "I just hate this. It's actual hell. I don't know how you do it."

"Wow, I'm sorry Oliver put you on house-arrest but don't insult my skills," she jokes, stealing one of his chips.

"It wasn't Oliver," he barks, leaning his face on his fist. "It was Thea." When Felicity quirks an eyebrow, he reluctantly elaborates, "Apparently we couldn't make a public appearance together because of my outstanding warrant."

"Well, the whole thing _is_ sponsored by Starling City police," she suggests, patting his knee supportingly. "What's the warrant for?"

"I stole a car."

"What? Whose car?"

"I don't know whose car it was, that's not the point."

"So no regrets there, huh?"

"No, actually, I needed the money," he snarls. "I don't suppose you understand."

She turns back towards her two favorite pieces of tech as she starts typing. "Believe it or not, I wasn't born with a diamond spoon in my mouth and a chanel diaper around my ass like the queens. For a long time my mom worked three jobs, and even then sometimes we only had soup for dinner that was more broth than anything else."

"That explains your height," he retorts, after a beat passes between them, his face softening. She flips him the bird, and he chuckles, quietly. "You know, I'm starting to see why the three of them like you so much."

"Gee, thanks," she replies sarcastically, ignoring the way her heartbeat annoyingly speeds up. Casually, typing some nonsense on the computer to pretend she's busy, she presses, "Three of them, you said?"

"Yeah, Thea, Diggle and the lovely fern you brought here last month."

He snorts at the murderous look on her face when it snaps toward him and he reaches out to flick her ponytail. "Have you not seen the way Oliver looks at you?"

After the first few weeks, she kind of gave up on the entire romantic angle of her and Oliver's relationship. He was like a brick wall of emotionless, carefully thought out contact when it came to her.

(Not that Thea wasn't pushing for it anyway, with her all-but-subtle comments.

Exhibit A: "Ollie, would you mind showing me that cut on your abdomen, I want to check if it's healing properly. Or maybe Felicity can help you with that?"

"Oh, I see the salmon ladder is preoccupied," she'd exclaimed, loudly, and very badly acted, repeating it again until Felicity had budged in and looked up from her computer to find Oliver on it. "I was really looking forward to using it. Guess I'll just go home now." Quickly, as she scrambled her stuff into her arms, she added, "To study." Like she'd ever opened a book. "It'll just be the two of you, I guess. Bye!" Exhibit B.

Exhibit X. Even the more blatant ones. "What time do you get off tomorrow?" She'd asked Oliver, chewing on her pen, because they were in the midst of making plans to go over the new comm systems together. He'd pursed his lips, thinking it over. "I think around five, five-thirty." From the back of the room, avoiding a punch from Diggle in the middle of a sparring session, she'd yelled, "Maybe you could watch!" Diggle about died, trying to hard to hide a laugh to dodge a kick in the abs, and so did Felicity. Out of embarrassment.

There are dozens more. Does she even need to go on?)

"N-no," she stutters, stumbling on the words because her brain activity is off the charts. She folds a loose piece of hair behind her ear, shaking her head lightly as she avoids eye-contact. "He looks at—at _me_? I know he looks at me, of course, I mean, I have eyes, but differently? Than at you, you guys?"

Like a fricking ball rolling down a hill collecting speed, everything starts to click together in her head.

The way he presses his hand against the low of her back when they leave the Foundry late at night or early in the morning and how, when it's particularly late and dark he'll follow her car home so he knows she's safe; how he stopped rolling his eyes at Thea's 'jokes' and just regularly smirked and avoided eye-contact instead now; how she caught him staring at the back of her neck one evening when she was tying up her hair and even multiple times after that; the codename _he_ coined for her; how he no longer flinches whenever she casually reaches out to touch him in victory or support; how he clenches his jaw and his pupils widen whenever they stand just a little too close; that soft voice in which he says her name; how he always leans in just slightly when she talks to him. That's not usually a reaction she gets from other people, they'd just rather she'd shut up. _He likes her back._

Roy snorts at the look on her face, tilting his head back so he can empty the last dorito crumbs out of the bag and into his mouth. "You just had the realisation, huh?"

She doesn't bother responding, swallowing thickly. It's like frickin' toothpaste. Now it's out there, floating around in her head, and she can't _not_ think about it.

It's then and there she figures it's only a matter of time. He can't have that much self-control. She's there and willing, and with there she means literally by his side almost every day. To speed up the process a little, she just starts to come in in her shortest and tightest dresses. Most of which her mother sent her in a quest to get her to date 'anybody but work' or possibly 'make a move on that handsome CEO of hers'.

"You look nice today, Felicity," John smiles, crossing his arms over his chest as he comes up behind her as she works on hacking some criminal's phone to track him. A kindergartner could do it, so she can easily multi-task.

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, grinning up at him, shyly. "Thanks, Digg." Her grin fades, as quick is it came.

"Why the sad look?" He urges, crossing his arms as he leans back against the desk.

"No reason." He gives her a stern look, and she rolls her eyes, halfheartedly. Her gaze flickers to Oliver, hard at work with the punching bag, briefly. "I just kinda hoped someone else would notice."

Diggle smiles knowingly, obviously amused as he reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, "I promise you, he definitely has."

As if to make his point, Roy, wrapping white tape around his fists, joins Oliver. Loudly, his voice booming through the room, he remarks, "Jesus, what has this bag ever done to you?" The older man just grits his teeth, punching the bag so hard, it collides into Roy's chest, just able to steady it and himself. There's definitely some frustration there.

When she looks back at John, biting down on her lip, he's already risen to his feet, eyebrows raised at her suggestively before he returns back to the first aid kit, doing their bi-weekly check of supplies.

It's not like she actively looms around and waits for everyone to leave so she can corner him. She keeps herself busy, going through the list Oliver keeps around of criminals to find dirt on them. She always did her homework weeks ahead, so it's not like it's out of character.

Besides, Roy figured he should check on Thea (the news broke Zayn was leaving the band and she took a day off because she's dramatic like that) since she hadn't returned a text message in the last fifteen minutes and that was very atypical considering her phone was glued to her hand, and Diggle had a date with his wife so they were both gone within an hour or two.

Oliver was freshly showered, tying his shoelaces, sitting at the conference table that was in the Foundry in case he ever decided to put together a league of vigilantes (she has no idea _why_ it's there, to be frank, Oliver is not exactly a _friendly_ person) when she came up to him.

"So how do you feel about 1D PZ?" She starts, because she's awkward like that and hates being confrontational, hands wringing together. He frowns, hand motions pausing on his laces and she clarifies, lifting a shoulder indifferently, "Post-Zayn."

A smile breaks out onto his face, despite the fact he's trying really hard to hide it, sitting up as he shakes his head lightly. "You're remarkable, you know that?"

"Thank you?" She clears her throat, timidly as she adjusts her position, locking a knee, then unlocking it, shifting her heeled feet. His gaze on her is just making her very—nervous. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she pushes her glasses further up her nose. "For remarking on it."

Something dark flashes across his face as his gaze lingers on her wet lips, and suddenly he's talking, "You're really killing me, you know that right?"

She must look very confused because he sighs, running a hand over his face as he leans back in his chair. He looks like he's already regretting the start of this conversation, but continues, anyway.

"All of those short little dresses, like the one you're wearing now—" he motions his hand towards her, clenching his jaw, and her heart is jumping against her ribcage, "or, when you're working and biting one of those ridiculous red pens, or put your hair up, or worse, wear it down. Or, or when you smile and..." His voice trails off and he looks like he wants to say more, but he presses his lip together into a tight line, gritting his teeth slightly.

She snorts, crossing her arms over her chest, but tons of conflicting emotions are flooding her body and she doesn't quite know how to react to what he's saying without making a fool out of herself. "What's next? I breathe suggestively?"

His face softens and he knocks his knuckles absently against the table once or twice, focusing his gaze there, collecting his thoughts and she decides it's best to give him the time. She doesn't want to push him, not when he's finally opening up to her.

"What I went through, on the island," his voice trails back off, and he's sighing again, finally meeting her gaze. "After that, it changes you. And—you don't see people. You see threats. You're the first person in a long time that looked at me like I was also a person. Not who I was before the island, or what I became after. Not my father's son. Just me." The corners of his lips turns up slightly, apologetically, almost. "Which makes it all the worse, I guess."

She shifts closer, just a little, opening and closing her mouth soundlessly. It makes it worse, because it isn't just a physical attraction they feel. "Oliver," she finally manages to blurt out, and she can feel she's on the verge of a full on ramble so she clamps her mouth back shut.

"It's just not—" He cuts himself off, fingers curling into his palm. "It's not safe."

"I don't want to be safe, Oliver," she snaps, because she's tired of this. She likes him and he likes her and they can't stay in this limbo of will they or won't they forever. It's either going to happen now, or it's not. And if it's not, he should be honest with her. So she's lying all out of her cards, and he can choose what to do with the information as he pleases. She closes her eyes, briefly, trying to calm herself down. "I just want to be with _you_."

He swallows thickly, and suddenly he's rising to his feet, and everything seems to slow down all at once. "Felicity, I—"

"No, it's okay, if you don't want to pursuit this," she motions in between the two of them, whatever that may be, "that's your decision, and I'll respect that. But you _can't_ —you can't keep doing this. Just say it's not going to happen, say never—" and then she's not talking, because his lips are on hers, and her eyes are widen, until he presses closer and she manages to relax under his touch.

She opens her mouth, welcoming the hot slide of his tongue against hers, his hands coming up to cup her face gingerly.

Each time she imagined this moment—and that happened a lot—she'd imagined him to be rougher, harder, more confident, like the persona he put on each night. Now she realized, that was just that. A persona. He was much gentler, softer, with her. Sweet, and almost shy. He wanted her to take charge, to coax him through it, strip him of his defenses, leading him through every touch.

She clutches at his shoulders, trying to get closer and closer, and one of his hands slides further down, fingers threading through her hair and loosening her ponytail in the process. Their tongues stroke against each other, the stubble on his face scratchy and coarse against her skin, one hand coming up to curl around the hard angle of his jaw. He groans, low, in the back of his throat as he kisses her harder, warm breath against her cheek and nose.

At one point, they pull away, both breathing heavy as they look at each other.

"I'm really glad I went to that concert," she grins up at him, because she can't just stand there in silence because of who she is as a person, and he reaches out to smooth some hair from her forehead, absently, mouth curled up fondly. "And I almost don't regret getting practically blown up, either."

His chest rumbles with a low chuckle. "That makes two of us." She shifts her head so she can peak up at him.

"To be fair, I think a lot of girls there don't regret going to that concert, but I assume you also mean the not getting blown to pieces part."

He tilts his head slightly, hissing like he's that's not actually what he meant and she pushes against his chest, burying her smile against his chest as she presses her forehead to his shoulder. "Wow, you got jokes now?"

His arms come up to circle around her waist as he kisses the top of her head, and she decides that this is definitely good. It's not going to be easy, because they still disagree on a lot of things and they're both stubborn, but after that kiss they just shared, she has a feeling they're both invested enough to make it work.

"So about my dresses, I heard you have some complaints?" She teases, pulling back to look at him as her hands slide down his chest. "Should I switch to jeans?"

"No, no," he presses, quickly, eyes raking down her body and she appreciates the fact now they can finally do something about the way his pupils darken and the tension builds up between her thighs. " _Definitely_ keep wearing them."

"Right now?"

His hands slide down her waist, coming to a halt on the slope of her hips as he smirks, "Right _now_ it would be better if it was off."

.

Thea uploads a picture of the blurry photo of her and Curtis, split in half with a grumpy looking Oliver that she probably took without his permission, and another of the two of them together to twitter as soon as she hears about the news.

Felicity doesn't even know how Thea got the picture, doesn't remember it being taken, even if she does remember the day she wore that dress. He's leaning in to kiss her, smiling and she's looking up at him through her lashes adoringly, hand over his chest. Up until that point they'd tried to be stealthy, keeping it from the team until they were sure they worked together.

Also, secret relationships were totally hot, and her friends were embarrassing. Case in point:

 **thequeen**

 _UPDATE! from #ishouldvekissedyou to #taken ;) #GLOup [photo]_

 **thequeen retweeted iWestAllen**

 _Damn I ship it!_

 **thequeen retweeted MrCurtisTerrific**

 _yeah, they def Up All Night …_

 **ciscooo in reply to MrCurtisTerrific and thequeen**

… _!_

 **f-smoak in reply to ciscooo, MrCurtisTerrific and more**

 _I'm blocking you all as we speak_

 **thequeen in reply to f-smoak, Mr**

 _wish u'd blocked my view when u two were going to town underneath the salmon ladder in our private gym! #scarredforlife #nota1Dsongbutitshouldbe_

 **bartholomew in reply to thequeen, f-smoak and more**

 _Nice!_

 **iWestAllen in reply to thequeen, bartholomew and more**

 _Hahahahahahahahahahaha I'm dying_

 **ciscooo in reply to thequeen, f-smoak and more**

 _Define going to town_

 **thequeen in reply to ciscooo, f-smoak and more**

 _doin the tango, full on 4th base &on the way to a homerun, bumpin uglies, a lil afternoon delight, boinking, banana in the fruitsalad, jammin the clam, bedroom rodeo, mattress dancing, traumatizing your sister, wiggling the toothpick, parallel parking, i was #readytorun_

 _ **bartholomew in reply to thequeen, ciscooo and more**_

 _Ohhhhhh, adult naptime? ;)_

 **iWestAllen in reply to bartholomew, thequeen and more**

 _aggressive cuddling!_

 **MrCurtisTerrific**

 _Thank God for 280 character limit! That got progressively worse_

 **f-smoak in reply to ciscooo, MrCurtisTerrific and more**

 _HACKING AND DELETING THE ENTIRETY OF TWITTER IN THREE...TWO…_

.


End file.
